On Fire

I’ve needed to work my way through this political moment in our country, and writing is what is helping me to do that. Going forward my focus will not zoom in on politics. I will return instead to what is always at the heart of my message, which is to connect who we are in our soul with how we live in the world—which when you think about it is about as political as it gets.

I hope you’ll stick with me. Thank you for helping me navigate this week by your presence here. I am deeply grateful.

The world is on fire.

As it always is.

The world is still beautiful.

As it always is.

~ Drew Jackson

We live in a small rural town where the risk of wildfire is high, which means that for several months of the year we are under a burn ban. Just recently after a few days of good, heavy rain, the burn ban was lifted. Fires have been burning throughout the valley as neighbors and logging operations have set off slash piles, but we hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

On Wednesday morning, November 6th, the day after the election, we weren’t quite sure what to do with ourselves having learned the outcome. Consuming more news, doom scrolling, and imagining the worst felt like adding fuel to our emotional fires. Time to set off the burn pile.

We’ve accumulated stuff all year and tossed it on a pile out in our field. Branches, brush that needed to be cleared, an old wooden dresser and a stool beyond repair, sensitive documents, and a little bit more of this and that. When we torched it off, fueled by a few dashes of gasoline, it burned fast and hot, quickly reducing the pile to a fraction of the size of the original. There was lots and lots and lots of smoke at first, obscuring the view on the other side of the pile. It felt a lot like the post-election world, obscured from view by the scorching hot flames that have been fanned in our country over the past decade. It was hard to imagine what lay on the other side of that political fire.

As the major flames burned themselves out, there was more smoke and less fire. As the pile continue to burn, the smoke became less dense making it is possible to see through it. Our flag, the one we fly every day, became visible although a bit distorted. It looked a lot like how America feels right now.

As the pile burned lower, we pushed any embers and still smoldering branches in towards the center, reducing the size of the pile a little bit at a time until it was nothing but a heap of glowing ashes that will take a few days to burn out.

The fire had burned hot and fast, consuming everything. The pile was gone and the air had cleared. It felt as if something had burned away for me too. Looking toward the house, our flag was still hanging there. No longer distorted but definitely tattered and a bit worse for the wear since we purchased it. The morning light was shining through her stars and stripes, and the sun a bright beacon in the distance. She reminded me that our country still stands, even if on different footing.

What is true of the burn pile is true of our lives. We’ve gotten ourselves to this moment in our shared history together. No one is exempt, which means that we all have things that are best taken to the burn pile, set aflame, and reduced to ashes.

America has always been an aspiration. A promise. Something to work toward, but never arrive at, because the work is never done.

Time to get to work.

Re-stacking The Wood

There’s nothing much more satisfying than stacking firewood.

Piece by piece the wood that was once a tree that blew down in the wind, was blocking the view of the mountain for a neighbor, or that needed to be taken down due to disease or to create a better fire barrier, goes from the stack in the shed into a wheelbarrow and onto the stack on the back porch.

That firewood serves a purpose.

It fuels the fire around which we gather. It brings people together, as has been true for most of human history. Time together around a fire warms the collective, reminding us that we are not alone, that we belong to one another, are meant to live in relationship with one another and not left out in the cold on our own.

Stacking the wood is a collection of elements that make for a worthwhile project.

It is manual labor. Work done with the hands of humans. It is meaningful labor. Work that accomplishes something that matters. It is methodical labor. Steady and purposeful effort toward a desired outcome.

Today I re-stacked the firewood onto the stack in the shed.

It’s fire season and we will be away from home for a while. Wood on the porch under the eaves of the house could ignite in the event of a wildfire, putting our home at risk. Moving the wood, piece by piece, from one stack to another, I was reminded—by a friend who shares my love for stacking wood—of the pattern by which Richard Rohr teaches that all transformation takes place. Order. Disorder. Reorder. That’s how transformation works. And as much as we cling to our desire for order and want to keep things all neat and buttoned up, there is no skipping the messy middle disorder. It is only in the midst of the mess and jumble of the pieces that we are able to put life back together in ways that will better serves what life is asking of us.

Like it or not, we are in the midst of disorder on a national and global scale. Rather than gathering together around the hearth of the common good, we are increasingly a people divided by difference rallying around blazes fueled by fear.

Re-stacking the wood of the world is our collective task.

It is the manual labor that can only be done by human, the meaningful labor that has the potential to accomplish something that matters, and the methodical labor comprised of steady and purposeful effort towards a desired outcome.

Re-stacking the wood for the common good, might, just might, keep us from going up in flames.

Holy Fires

For me to be a saint means to be myself (Thomas Merton)…We owe it to the God who created us, to ourselves, to the people we love, and to all with whom we share this troubled planet, to become “saints”. How else can we run and complete the errand upon which God sent us here?

The Road Back To You by Ian Morgan Cron & Suzanne Stabile

Sometimes someone speaks truth into our lives in a way that changes us. In a way that reminds us of who we are and why we are here.

Recently that happened to me.

Twice.

The first, when a new friend, one I met just last week at Rancho La Puerta, stopped me mid-sentence and said, “Molly, you are a holy fire.” It simultaneously gave me shivers and a lump in my throat then, and gives me the same now as I see her words in print. I knew what she said to be true, in that kind of quiet, deep knowing that happens in such moments.

The second, when my dearest friend of almost 45 years told me that in all of our times of working together, she’s never seen me as she is seeing me now. That I am “at the top of my game”. Again, I knew her words to be true, but at 65 years of age, the top of my game isn’t about building my brand, or establishing myself as a well-known expert, rather, it is about offering my work in service to others. Perhaps that is what being at the top of our game is meant to mean at any age.

I hesitate to even write about this, as it sounds high and mighty, and like I think I’m all that. Quite the opposite. Rather than high and mighty, I feel low, as in grounded on the earth, and small, as in a tiny reflection of what happens whenever we live our lives from the center of our being. Yes, I’ve honed my craft and refined my skills, but I can stake no claim to that holy blaze, other than that I’ve learned to stoke the fire that was laid for me from the beginning. And being at the top of my game? It doesn’t mean showing off…it means showing up.

We are each meant to be a holy fire, and called to be at the top of our game. Let’s remind one another of who we are, by speaking truth that will help us complete the errand upon which we’ve each been sent.

Written with deep gratitude